


Driven to Distraction

by laineymaid



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, I'm new, Pining Enjolras, Rule 63, Sorry if I fucked up everything, this fic consists entirely of queer ladies being ridiculous
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:16:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1209049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laineymaid/pseuds/laineymaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There was, of course, nothing obscene about Grantaire's breasts. Breasts were a secondary sexual characteristic, wrongly sexualized by media and patriarchal society. None the less, they were mesmerizing, and Enjolras couldn't tear her gaze away. </p><p>Fuck.<br/>That was ridiculous.<br/>She could look away.<br/>She should look away.<br/>She was going to look away. </p><p>She didn't look away."</p><p>Everything about Grantaire drives Enjolras to distraction, her breasts, her lips and her goddamn cigarettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Driven to Distraction

It was an unusually warm night in September when Enjolras realized how well and truly fucked she was. She'd arrived at the Musain five minutes early to find Bahorel and Grantaire early for perhaps the first time in their lives and complaining loudly about what a travesty it was that Enjolras would never let them hold the meeting out on the patio  tonight because she abhorred fun in all forms and heaven forbid they enjoy themselves at a meeting. It wasn't until she'd countered emphatically that she was indeed  ‘fun’ and just because she took meetings seriously didn't mean she didn't like sunshine and fine they could have the meeting outside that she suspected she had been tricked. It wasn't that she minded having the meeting outside, although meeting on the patio did tend to impede productivity. No, what Enjolras minded about outdoor meetings was that they meant Grantaire could smoke all night, red lips curling enticingly around cigarettes, breathing out smoke like it wasn't the most distracting damn thing on the planet. If Grantaire was going to smoke all night Enjolras wasn't going to be able to focus on a damn thing. 

It was a relief when eleven o’clock came and the meeting, which had featured an unusually quiet Enjolras, dissolved into a gathering of friends. The patio was a large space, as comfortably furnished as the rest of the Musain. Between the two ratty ancient couches and a smattering of equally decrepit chairs arranged in a loose circle, the dozen of them fit comfortable but pressed together in the space. Enjolras looked around. Marius, Cosette and Eponine curled together on one of the couches, awkward and giddy in the wake of their recently negotiated confusing modern relationship. Joly and Bousset occupied the other couch and had been joined by Musichetta at the end of her shift. Jehan, in the chair between the two couches, had immediately hijacked her arm for poetry scribbling purposes. At the end of the meeting, Courfeyrac had climbed into Combeferre's lap in an armchair clearly designed for one person and looked quite delighted with the result. Enjolras herself was seated in the chair next to them and, to the detriment of her usual eloquence, directly across from Grantaire. As usual, Grantaire had spent the entire evening chain-smoking and heckling Enjolras from her spot between Bahorel and Feuilly.  With the meeting adjourned, they had all begun drinking in earnest. It was a Friday night, after all, and even Combeferre was letting Courf bully her into taking shots of something sickeningly sweet looking, apparently under the condition that she chased them down with her tongue. 

Enjolras sipped sulkily at the Shirley Temple Courfeyrac had brought her, and resolutely did not watch Grantaire smoke her cigarette. She'd kept herself from staring all through the meeting--more or less, but she hadn't prepared herself for this one, and her resolve was starting to crumble. She looked up, caught off guard by Grantaire's laugh, and she was trapped, eyes transfixed by the solid curl of paint covered fingers around filterless cigarette. She followed them back to Grantaire's mouth for another drag, gaze sliding across the frankly obscene swell of Grantaire's breasts. Immediately she regretted the description. There was, of course, nothing obscene about Grantaire's breasts. Breasts were a secondary sexual characteristic, wrongly sexualized by media and patriarchal society. None the less, they were mesmerizing, and Enjolras couldn't tear her gaze away.

Fuck.

That was ridiculous.

She could look away.

She should look away.

She was going to look away.

She didn't look away.

It was like they were taunting her. Everything about Grantaire was mocking her, so close and yet so utterly unattainable. Oh god, she thought, as every sexist commentary on women's clothing she'd ever fumed over raced through her head, I am a part of the problem. It wasn't until Grantaire's voice startled her out of her reverie that she realized she was still staring.

"I know you hate it when I smoke, and it's bad for the environment, and I'm going to get cancer et cetera et cetera, ad infinitum, but could you dial the glare back just a little? You're scaring the children." She said, low voice a product of the cigarette and the thousands before it.

"Grantaire it's nearly midnight, there are no children," she said, as Courfeyrac wailed, "Won't somebody please think of the children?" from her perch on Combeferre's lap. Grantaire laughed again, threw her head back and let her whole body shake with mirth. Her breasts bounced carelessly, innocently, as if they weren't driving Enjolras absolutely mad. Enjolras flushed. Courfeyrac smirked and whispered something to Combeferre, who glanced up at Enjolras and rolled her eyes knowingly behind thick rimmed spectacles. Combeferre was going to be insufferable when they get home, she thought. If Combeferre even came home. The way Courfeyrac was laughing loud into her neck and less than surreptitiously groping at her ass made that possibility seem less and less likely, and she was grateful for that, at least. Combeferre and Courfeyrac had fucked in the apartment she and Combeferre shared precisely once while Enjolras was home. Making eye contact the morning after had been enough to ensure that any future trysts took place in at Courfeyrac’s, where Marius had learned to deal with the noise back in their college days. 

Unfortunately, she knew an empty house would only make it harder to resist the temptation to hole up in her room and spend a good portion of the night getting herself off imagining Grantaire’s paint stained fingers curled inside of her, the other hand fisted in her hair, pulling back hard to leave lipstick coated bruises on her throat, biting and sucking and growling ‘mine’ over and over, fingers fucking up into her relentlessly--Enjolras cut herself short. It was one thing to harbor fantasies in the secrecy of her own bedroom, it was quite another to imagine Grantaire ravishing her with the other girl not even six feet away from her. She glanced guiltily at Grantaire, who was staring at her, then looking back down at her lap. She could feel the flush rising on her face as she realized that Grantaire had her sketchbook out, and had been sketching, and staring at her and..oh. Completely by accident, Grantaire’s deft hands had captured the expression on Enjolras’s face as she imagined those same hands thrusting into her hard, making her moan. Enjolras flushed even harder. Grantaire looked up again, and Enjolras could see the question forming in her eyes as she took in Enjolras’ beet red face. Enjolras couldn’t answer that question, couldn’t find the lie that would make it all okay, certainly couldn’t tell the truth. She stood up, hurriedly, just shy of panicked.

“Combeferre?” She nearly shouted, as she gathered her things, all but shoving them into her bag.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre replied easily, as if she weren't engaged in one of the most sickening public displays of affection the world had ever seen.

"I've just remembered I have to get up early tomorrow, so I'm heading home. Should I expect to see you in the morning?"

"Definitely not," said Courfeyrac, lifting her head from Ferre's chest to wink obnoxiously. "I wouldn't expect her tomorrow afternoon, either, my dear. You know I hate to deprive you of dear Ferre's company and leave you to sulk about your flat alone, but I don't think she's going to get much sleep tonight."

Combeferre somehow managed to flush, look non-plussed, and roll her eyes at the same time. "I promise I'll be home by six if you want to do dinner. I think we might have some talking to do."

"Sounds good," said Enjolras, and then, “Goodnight everyone.”

Ten different goodnights were mumbled, shouted, and sing-songed back as she turned away, one from everyone except Grantaire who said “Wait, Enjolras…”

Enjolras stopped short, turned back as she continued. “Let me walk home with you. I’ve got a meeting with a new client tomorrow, and if I don’t make myself leave now I’m just gonna hang around here until 4 and then try to do my meeting on 4 hours sleep. Do a starving artist a favor, Enjolras. Let me walk you home.”

Enjolras hesitated, reluctant to spend even another minute with Grantaire’s distracting lips and unsettling eyes, but in the end, she found herself unsurprised that she was unable to deny Grantaire.

“Alright,” she said. “I could use the company.

Fuck, she thought. She was so fucked.

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so this is my first time writing anything in the Les Mis fandom. If you made it this far hopefully I did ok?
> 
> I have a tumblr here if anyone's interested
> 
> miserablefuckinglesbians.tumblr.com


End file.
